


Mind Games

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry makes a choice - but is it the right one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Games

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004, while on holiday, as I recall :) It has a sequel, [Heart's Desire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/98819). Betaed by Pipspebble.

_"That's funny," said Merry. "Almost exactly what I felt myself; only, only well, I don't think I'll say any more," he ended lamely._

The Mirror of Galadriel – J.R.R. Tolkien: The Fellowship of the Ring

 

_Merry gasps..._

Treacle toffee melting on the tongue, a dark sweet stickiness, heavy, rich, promising everything. He reaches for another piece and his hand collides with warmth, and there is laughter, high-pitched and wicked. Merry raises his head and squints into the sun? Who is there? He thought he was alone. Wasn't he alone?

The air rushes from his body as a solid form rolls near him, on him. Treacle smeared lips fasten on his, warm and sticky and sweet as fruit. There is a familiar scent of vanilla and apples as caramel-brown curls tickle his cheek, and Merry gasps as the lips move down his throat setting little fires with their kisses, that cling with sweetness, and are sugar-filled, as he surely knows. (Oh, somehow he knows...)

He moans and mutely reaches for remembered (remembered?) warmth but instead his elbow plunges into toffees, scattering them across the hillside. And Pippin sits up, a darkling shadow, the sun showing gold and bronze and copper in his hair as it frames his face, incandescent aureole, until he grins and pokes him in the ribs.

"Silly Merry..."

And he takes a toffee and pops it into Merry's mouth, leaning down to brush his lips with his own as he does so, and there is tenderness melting on his tongue, heavy, rich and sweet, and Merry feels like crying but he doesn't quite know why…

 

_Almost silently..._

There is a yelping in the distance and Merry holds his breath. Surely the dogs won't find them here? He is too old to be indulging in such foolishness, what will Papa say if he is caught stealing apples at his age? And then he looks over and catches Pippin's eye, who crouches in the fern brake next to him, scarf askew, curls more than usually untidy, and laughter dancing in his eyes. Merry tries to direct a stern warning with his glance, for they need silence now, and Pippin has never been very good at silence, but instead the idiotic lad starts laughing, almost choking with it, and the dogs will surely hear them and, oh honestly, Pip is impossible!

He lunges for him then, and almost silently they wrestle on the ground as Merry tries to stifle Pip's mirth with his own scarf. The ferns are crushed a little and give a sweet scent, and the earth is damp and rich. Then Merry finds he stares into green eyes gone dark as holly leaves, and spiked with warmth, they hook him, and draw him in. He stops trying to stuff the scarf into Pippin's mouth, instead he drags the protesting hands, that protest no more (have they ever protested?), above his head and loosely knots the scarf about the wrists. He watches Pip's breath come faster as he does this and then he leans down and pushes his body down hard onto Pip, pressing him into the soft earth, and this time – this time! – Pippin is silent, but his eyes shut and his mouth opens, round and rosy as an apple. A possessiveness clutches Merry then, surely Pippin belongs to him, they belong to each other, and always will. He will never know a world without Pippin. Why should he? This is the natural order of things. He never has to worry about that... (Does he?)

 

_As her eyes..._

Merry fidgets at tea. He can't help it. He finds the formality of the stilted conversation and the stiffness of his best clothes stifling. The fine food in generous quantities does not make up for the fact that Pippin sits opposite him, miles away, serene, guileless, smiling at the simpering hobbit lass placed next to him. Merry fumes, and plays with his food.

Then Pippin glances over, sly, sidelong, his green cat's eyes offering secrets only they share. (Secrets? Oh, to have secrets...) Merry stills, holding his breath, caught up again in a painful joy. Pippin's gaze promises so much, so many things, and Merry watches him take a delicate bite of fruit cake, almost tasting it himself, knowing he will savour it later, dark and smoky on Pippin's tongue. Pip looks down and his lashes grace his cheek in a dark curve, and Merry follows the line of the throat with his eyes, watching him swallow, and reflexively swallows himself, his mouth dry.

He turns to catch something his own partner says, Pippin's sister Pimpernel, and she looks at him out of a knowing face, resigned, almost unhappy. As her eyes follow the direction of his gaze, he finds himself blushing, knowing it to be ridiculous but then meets her glance head on, there is nothing to be ashamed of after all (not any more), and she looks away first. It is a victory, Merry knows, and feels a little triumphant. (Not guilty, not desperately sad...) This is one secret that is not hidden, not among family, and Merry can be generous and feel sorry for the lass chattering away so brightly to his Pippin, a bird showing her plumage in vain. (Really? In vain?)

 

_Meet his..._

Merry loves to watch him sleep. Pippin curls up tight, tucked into himself as though he is hiding. The limbs that are generous of movement, open and giving during the day, close up at night, like a flower. In the moonlight his skin is pale as milk, soft as shadowed damask, and his fingers curl and hold the quilt in wrinkles that surround him like the waves around a just-skipped stone. And like a stone, just touching water for the first time, let fly for its short glorious journey, Pippin is deceptively quiet in repose. It is the fraction of time before he is launched again. He is still, quiet, as he never is awake, and Merry finds he holds to these moments, treasures them (he always has).

So Merry is always careful, and fits himself around his sleeping form so gently that Pippin never wakes. He has had years of practice, and in the past, sometimes Pip would sigh and shift a little closer, and Merry would feel his heart fill, like an overflowing bowl, and sometimes Pip would grunt and move away, and Merry would feel bereft, knowing it meant nothing, precisely nothing, either movement as unconscious of its effect as a wave upon a shore. Now things are different (oh, so different), now he has no need to creep closer, like a thief in the night, unsure of his reception, now he can wake him if he likes, he can watch the sleepy eyes open, and know they will smile and reach for him. It is a gift, rare and strange, better than any mathom. Merry can trace the curve of an eyebrow with rough fingers, or brush his thumb across parted lips, or stroke a hand along flushed skin and be pulled down into drowsy kisses, warm and slow.

But still he curves round Pippin carefully, cautious of his waking. Here in Crickhollow (Crickhollow? Frodo's house?) even knowing this, Merry likes to meet his curled form as he once did, with trembling hesitance, with unnoticed love. It reminds him of another life, another world, before this one, reminds him how lucky he is, to be here with Pippin, as he never dreamed he would be. And however much he misses Frodo (misses Frodo?) and sometimes wonders what happened after they went home, and thinks about his choice, he can never regret it. (Can he?) After all he has gained everything he always wanted...

 

_And they offer..._

The scrape of stone on iron stings the nerves. Merry expects the next long drag of the sharpening stone, and yet he never quite times it right and finds he always jumps a little at the raw sound. He twitches in anticipation, and Pippin looks up. There is a smudge of oil on his cheek, and his eyes are unusually sober, as he angles the leaf shaped blade to look along its shining length.

"All ready?"

Merry nods. He has sharpened and oiled his own blade long since. Anxiety pushes him to check again, as Pippin is doing, but he refuses to pander to his worries. (What worries?) He is not even sure what use the swords will be but something has pushed him and Pippin both to take them out and check their readiness. He wonders if Boromir would be pleased with such evidence of his training, and wonders how he is, far away in his beloved Gondor probably by now.

He cannot articulate why they are both driven to such precautions. All Merry knows is that there are too many Strangers about, Big People of uneasy looks (in the Shire?), and they offer sweet words and cozening smiles, and Merry finds his fingers itch for his blade as they have never done before. He suppresses another urge to draw the silken metal whispering from its sheath and check the edge once more.

Instead, Merry gets up and wanders over to Pippin's stool, angling himself away from the work on the blade, standing behind Pippin, wordlessly seeking comfort. Pippin leans back into his solid warmth, and Merry bends his head and buries his nose in Pip's hair, fine strands soft against his face, and he inhales the sweetness that is Pippin, blade oil and fear. It is a combination he never expected to scent again, and he shivers as the cold darkness of Moria touches him once more. But this time (this time), Pippin reaches up a hand slippery with oil and tangles it in his hair, tugging a little hard in his eagerness, but Merry doesn't care. He allows his head to be pulled further round until the delicate point of Pippin's ear rests against his mouth, and from there it is but a second to nibble a soft trail, warm and sweet, until he feels the pulse point on Pippin's neck comforting under his tongue. And then he shivers again, someone walking over his grave, although he still doesn't know quite why...

 

_The world._

Red dappled shapes paint the insides of Merry's eyelids as he throws back his head and moans into Pippin's mouth. They are both sweat-slick and his hands slide on Pip's back as he pulls him closer. All is hot salt licked from flushed skin and red blood pounding in his throat, Merry can barely taste the ash in his mouth, for Pippin's sweetness fills him, and when he opens his eyes all is golden dazzle and sunshine, he can scarcely see the smoke rising for all the brilliant light.

This is what he wants to remember. Pippin's head dips lower, sending feathery jolts of pleasure deep inside of him, and Merry moans again, grasping at the earth, handfuls of leaf litter curling into his palms, grounding him, anchoring him. He wants to float away, into the bright sky, away from the future, away from the past, he wants eternity, but he wants only this moment of it forever. So he lifts his hands and grabs fistfuls of caramel hair, and holds the present, desperately trying not to rock too hard as Pip's clever tongue continues to work, and Merry stares and stares into the sun until little spots start to appear and he has to shut his eyes or be blinded.

Time does not stop. Nothing stops, except people, and the Shire, and their lives. Merry sucks in a gasping breath as he reaches up, and then reaches again, arching from the ground, Pippin effortlessly coming with him, even as his release tears from him so hard he knows the pleasure almost as a pain. And then they are both still, Pip lying across his thighs, cheek resting warm against shuddering flesh, that calms slowly and sends little quakes across the skin of his belly, as Merry gradually comes back into himself. He lets go of Pip's hair – apologetically, realising how tightly he has held on, but Pip has not complained, the joy is worth the pain, as they both know, especially now (now?), and Merry quietly begins to run his fingers through the matted curls, and to pick out the leaves and twigs he has so carelessly ground in.

"Is it time yet?"

Pip's voice is soft, scarce above a whisper, and Merry hears him through his bones as much as through his hearing, his body vibrating like a bell to Pippin's voice, as it has always done.

"Nearly. But we have a little time."

Pippin is silent, but he shifts and scrambles up Merry's body, and Merry holds out an arm and tucks him into his side, kissing the top of his head. They have all the time in the world, as Merry knows. Or they have no time left at all, and in the stretched moments between those two statements they can lie, warm in the sun, in the present, and pretend that things are different. They have only one more responsibility to discharge, to sell themselves as dearly as they can, for they are the last of their little band. Freddy fell but yesterday, and the dirt from his shallow burying still lies under their finger tips. So there is nothing and no-one to move them, excepting the Enemy, and there are always Enemies now.

Merry turns a little to face his Pippin, curling a leg protectively over his hipbone, and feeling the soft huff of Pip's breath against his chest. He inhales deeply, and if he thinks about it hard, he can still smell vanilla and a hint of apples, under the ash, and that is home for Merry, as it has truly always been. And he feels like crying as he wonders, for the first time, here at the end of things – is it enough? For he cannot keep Pip safe, any more than he could keep the Shire safe, and the regrets, even more than the fallen, the regrets hurt most of all...

 

_"Well, Meriadoc?" The Lady's voice echoes silver and gold in his head, it is how he imagines moonlight might sound, if moonlight had a voice, "Will you take what is offered? You will have your heart's desire, just as in Bilbo's tales of old. Will you turn back? You can, you know, and no shame will attend such a retreat back to your home."_

And Merry holds her eyes, as they stare at him with ageless knowledge, opaque and eternal, and remembers his manners, as he remembers many things.

"No, thank you," he replies politely, "Heart's desires are not always what they seem, you know. You can't trust them. I will go with Frodo, as I promised, and help him as I can."

And it seems to Merry that the Lady smiles at his answer, and that he is judged, and he holds to his decision stoutly in his mind, and ignores the sorrow that nibbles at his resolve. For he misses Pippin already, he finds, but then, he always has. That might-have-been Pippin of the sidelong glances, and the sweet soft kisses. Pippin of the heat and passion and moonlit nights. He misses that Pippin, who he will never know now, if he ever could have known him, and his heart breaks yet again. But he is used to that, had years of that, he can pick up the unseen pieces one more time, and he holds onto the thought, as he defiantly stares her down, that there are worse things than the regret of a broken heart. There are worse things in the world by far...


End file.
